It's The Little Things
by Sylviamaris
Summary: One woman finds her place in the universe, and it isn't necessarily where she planned to end up.


Author's Note: Occurs after the retaking of Coruscant; that's as specific as the timeline gets. Action will occur later, as will more interaction with known Star Wars characters and situations. The rating is for violence in later chapters. This chapter is something of an experiment, so please read and review. It's been meticulously spell- and grammar-checked, so if I've missed something, do let me know! 

******

The dreams meant nothing, most nights. Every night, they came, vivid and lucid and seeming to last for days. Each morning she regretted waking as the epic stories faded, slipping away until maybe a word or thought triggered a surge of emotion and rightness that she remembered, smiled with, then lost her grip on. She lived at night; her sleeptime voyages were her real life.

Tonight she'd dreamed about the ocean. Each morning she tried to find significance in the symbols of her subconscious landscape, usually with little success. As the details of the dream faded, leaving only the deep, vast, gently roiling sea and a visceral longing, she concluded that the most meaning this one held was that she felt stifled. Of course she needed to get out more. But what was there to do?

Her home – she made herself think "home" every time she walked in the door, and winced as she did – held few luxuries, technological or strictly material. One room with food-prep space to the right, a faded couch on which she slept and ate to the left, and a path down the center to get to the sanitary closet at the rear. It was clean, mostly because her possessions restricted themselves to clothing, holovids she played on a unit that fit on her lap, & a tablet that served for drawing and writing. She'd made more than one attempt to draw with it, all of which had been laughable, but she was working on a novel. It would never get published.

She pulled a long, straight dress over her head as a mug was filled with hot, green tea, then proceeded slicking down her unruly hair. She took the mug and sipped, wishing as always that she didn't have to be so gingerly about it, but it was still – as always – too hot. She lidded and sealed the mug for the commute to work, slid her stockinged feet into low boots and her arms into a long jacket (with very nice lines), and forced herself to walk out.

The door was locked, she had her bag, no one was in the hall. The floor smelled bad, again, although she hadn't heard anything… happen. She checked to the right, and to the left, and continued to the corner, where she checked to the right and to the left before venturing toward the door. _This is where I live_, she made herself think. She stepped out of the long, low block of flats and walked steadily toward her stop, measuring her steps carefully and breathing the rhythm. Confidence was the key.

As much as she hated mass transit, it was quicker than walking all the way to work would be, and it gave her an opportunity to stand still and drink her tea. _The best breakfast around, for so many reasons_, she assured herself as she drained the last of it and resealed the lid, placing it in her bag and walking again. After less than an hour she was seated in her vaguely uncomfortable chair, with the crack over one wheel positioned to the left, and keyed herself into six hours of mind-numbing clerical processing. It was interrupted only by a careful turn away from her console to eat a bowl of chopped fresh fruit, taking less than fifteen minutes.

Food was her real indulgence. After work and before returning home she walked to a grower's market twice a week, buying fresh vegetables and fruits, and the occasional pack of dried fruit when she was very sure she could trust the vendor. She knew most of them on sight now, if not by name, and though she had trouble with a few bizarre accents she was getting into the swing of bargaining and haggling. She never impressed herself, but she reminded herself frequently that it hadn't even been a year yet. She left today, as every day she visited, with her bag and another, disposable one filled with produce, and headed home.

Nothing inopportune happened on the way, and as she stepped finally down the hall toward her door, letting her stride speed up as she saw no one, she thought, _I'm home, this is my home,_ and opened the door. Her breath didn't hitch alarmingly as she reminded herself, and she set about putting her purchases safely away. She'd been thinking about her novel at work, her mind not having been deeply engaged in processing traffic citations. _One more paving stone down the line_. She picked up her tablet and contemplated. 

It was about a Jedi. Everyone was interested in Jedi now, whether their private opinions were favorable or otherwise, but she knew it wouldn't sell. No one had ever been overly complimentary of her writing. It lacked passion. Her characterization was clumsy, or wooden, or her sense of pacing was stilted and abrupt. And the Jedi in her story was neither noble and self-sacrificing nor corrupt and dangerous: he was questioning, and full of anguish, and driven only by the vaguest sense of duty and honor. His mission led him from imaginary planet to imaginary planet, studying the religious beliefs and sacred practices of indigenous peoples. What about all these exotic native gods? Were they real? Were they the Force? Was the Force even real? Was he blessed at birth by some deity he only angered day after day with his refusal to worship?

The novel was full of action and occurrences, and lots of philosophical moralizing, and no one would want to read it. It wouldn't get published. She played with syllables, inventing the name of another imaginary planet, because after all it was ridiculous to try to write about someplace she'd never been. It wouldn't be believable. Even her new life on Coruscant consisted of drudgery loneliness and kilometers of dull grey plascrete. It wasn't exciting or adventurous, _may the ancestors forbid it become exciting to the detriment of my security, but it's no fun at all. Anything could happen, that's why I have to stay where I'm safe, safe being relative as always –_

Crash, thud, outside her door, then *bangbangbangbangbangbang* six bangs, and "Let me in, let me in!" She startled then froze in place, eyes very wide, breathing very quietly. _I'm not here_. "Let me in, c'mon, please open the door, Elys, you have to let me in!" The voice was now decreasing in volume, sounding more urgent. 

__

No one knows I'm here. The stranger had used her name. Her right name, Elys, not mispronounced "Ellis" as everyone who saw it in print did. _Nobody knows where I am_….

She rose and unlocked the door.


End file.
